Tainted Blood
by cloudosaurus
Summary: "Izuku knows that he's weaseled his way into UA – into All Might's caring tutelage and the ranks of some of the country's finest heroes-in-training. Knows that there's someone else out there who would've been the better choice; should have been the one standing in these shoes." [A twisted character study, of a sort. Trigger warning - panic, anxiety, self-harm. Hurt, no comfort.]


Sometimes, Izuku collapses into a doubled-over, heaving heap at the foot of his bed, which he neatly makes every morning, hours before sunrise breaks the black night sky. He sits on the cold floor with his head buried between his legs, spine curved into an unnatural semicircle. He gasps in the small space that separates his trembling knees which are drawn impossibly close to his pounding chest, and buries shaking hands in the dark, mossy curls of his hair. Izuku digs the sharp, ragged edges of his gnawed nails into the thin skin of his scalp as his fingers yank at thick, green locks like they're trying to uproot grass from soil. But it doesn't hurt. If anything, it makes the hurt less.

The hurt is like a living, breathing creature that crawls under the surface of Izuku's pale skin. At times, it slumbers, so that Izuku almost forgets its existence as he laughs in synch with his new friends that are also his rivals, and then trains with them without missing a beat. They see Izuku grow. They comment on how he's stopped slouching and his shoulders are broader and his muscles so well defined. They shower praises to make his budding confidence blossom, and know that he'll be – he is – a wonderful hero.

When Izuku looks in the mirror, he wishes he could see what they see. What he sees is a boy pretending to be bigger than he'll ever be. His frame is still too slight, his progress too slow, and his muscles will never be powerful enough to protect all the people who depend on someone like him as their last ray of hope. Izuku is a child playing at being a hero, and his confidence is a façade that crumbles the moment he's alone behind closed doors.

The monster always rears its hideous head when Izuku least expects it. It shortens conversations with classmates and pleasant evenings that could be spent in the company of the people that he likes. Izuku murmurs quiet apologies under his breath and searches for unused excuses as his heartbeat begins to quicken and the world starts to seem strange; as familiar life morphs into a foreign scene filled with sounds that are too loud and sights that are too bright, and Ochako's happy giggles ring in his ears like clamouring bells that make his heart race. Izuku wipes his sweaty palms on the worn denim of his jeans, and disappears to the nearest safe space he can find.

The first time it happened, he skipped Present Mic's English class to retch over the sill of a second storey window. He fell to his knees on the stone floor with enough force to bruise, and gripped the grimy wall with white knuckles. Izuku barely registered the splat of his vomit hitting the ground below through the frenzied beating of his heart and the rush of blood that pounded in his ears to echo within his skull. He coughed bile into the sleeve of his dry-cleaned school uniform; felt it dribble down his chin, staining the pale fabric yellow. Izuku gasped for breath until he was dizzy, and then struggled up, trying to stand on shaky feet. He stared out of the opened window for the space of a few frantic heartbeats, not really seeing the burnt bushes or barren tops of distant trees, but vaguely contemplating the distance between his body and the dusty soil.

Then, Izuku choked back a whimper, caught between the fear of staying here – pathetic visage on display for anybody to see - and the fear of turning around to find a familiar face already staring. In the end, Izuku buried his tear-streaked cheeks and dripping nose in the sweaty palms of his trembling hands, and ran to the closest restroom. He locked himself inside a stall that was far from the door but close to a dirty window, where small spiders lived to weave webs and die. Izuku sat there – muddy sneakers on the toilet lid and curled up around himself like a worm – till long after the last class ended, spilling hot tears that left wet splotches on the grey tile.

Since then, Izuku has come to know well every dark, neglected corner, and the bathrooms that are always empty.

But just as often, if not more, the beast sneaks up on him when he's all alone in the confines of his room, at some point between the onset of curfew and when the curtain of night fades into dawn. It's during moments like this that Izuku realizes what he's truly afraid of isn't the demands of battle or nerve-racking rescue missions or undefeated villains. No, what Izuku is most terrified of is himself. His unworthy, lacking, good-for-nothing self. His weak body. His smile that masks a turbulent sea of self-doubt. His quirk that he can't control. Izuku knows that he's weaseled his way into UA – into All Might's caring tutelage and the ranks of some of the country's finest heroes-in-training. Knows that there's someone else out there who would've been the better choice; should have been the one standing in these shoes. Because that person would stand tall and proud and meet every challenge head-on, unlike Izuku, whose heroism is a tattered cloak with frayed threads that he wears just for the expectant eyes of the world.

And Izuku is all-too-aware that he's wasting precious seconds, – that tick into minutes that tick into hours – huddled in a corner, unable to move even though he's got four functional limbs; glassy eyes gazing into nothingness, heart hammering against his ribcage like it needs to explode out of his chest in a firework of red. A bead of sweat forms at his temple and trickles down his flushed face. Fat, cold droplets have already collected at the base of his spine, at the curve of his hip, wet. Izuku rocks back and forth, hands clamped over his ears, though there's no sound besides the roar of blood in his own veins. He gasps for breath until the room is spinning and still, he's running out of air.

And Izuku is all-too-aware that he's losing time, life slipping through his outstretched fingertips that are desperately reaching for the blurred outline of All Might's bright shadow. Still, he sits almost motionless – only the frenzied rise and fall of his chest and his wringing fingers belie the thing that consumes him, ripping apart his very being from the inside out – as night starts to dissolve into day. Izuku's perfectly made bed doesn't get unmade. In the fractured light of a scarlet dawn, Izuku glances at his reflection. It stares back at him with hollow red eyes set above puffy black bags set on pallid skin. He punches himself instead of the mirror.


End file.
